


Ad Capere Draco

by aerisaster



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (If not let me know), Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Daisy & Jon really, Canon-Typical Violence, Compulsion, Conspiracy, Cymraeg, Derogatory Language, Eldritch knowledge, Gen, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Menace, Paranoia, Police, Smoking, Speech compulsion - Freeform, Swearing, The Eye vs The Hunt, Welsh Character, Welsh Language, aspects of becoming, tags feel like spoilers but there we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-08 03:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15921504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerisaster/pseuds/aerisaster
Summary: “They didn’t say: who is it?”“We don’t have her name. I told your boss. Didn’t he explain that to you?”The man sighs, short and heavy. “I was just told that there was ‘an aggressive woman’ asking for me who ‘wouldn’t speak English’.”“And?”“And,” he sighs again, lightly, “you’d have to narrow that down a great deal before I could make an identification without seeing her.”It’s July 2017 and Jonathan Sims has quite enough to be thinking about without an unscheduled trip in the middle of the night.





	1. I Dechrau

“Um, sorry. Police? Please?”

“What’s the nature of the emergency, sir?”

“I’ve heard. It’s definitely. Um. Oh, sorry – I’m on Erebus Walk. That’s what you’re supposed… Um. Look, there were shots. I know. Oh, there they are again!”

“Sir? Sir, please stay on the line.”

“I’ve got to run, haven’t I?”

“Sir?”

“———”

“Damn.”

“I’ve got reports of gunshots on Erebus Walk.”

“Reports of gunshots on Erebus Walk here too.”

“Let’s get an ARV over there.”

“Explosion in the area too now, ma’am.”

“Two ARVs. Let’s get the experts out of bed while we’re at it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

*

Between the brightness and the darkness she has to decide which one to walk towards, and itʼs. It’s more difficult than they’d have you think, that’s for certain.

Wobbly legs. Should put a report in about that. Damn.

She shakes her head hard, nearly falls, but there’s edges coming back into the world and that’s.

She nearly trips over a leg. Problematic. But unattached. Good. Even so. The fire ought to deal with that.

Hmm.

The sound is loud. Sliding masonry singing destruction into the night and now. Now louder, but. Oh, damn. She’s missed that.

Familiar. Sweet as bloodfall, brighter than Christmas.

“Put your weapon on the ground and put your hands on your head.”

She complies instantly with a hard-flung clatter and a grin. This lot don’t know her. Good. This will make things easier.

For a start, if they knew her, they might just open fire.


	2. Code Whisperer

“Sir, with all respect – why am I here?”

“We need you to interview a suspect.”

“Um, suspected of what?”

“Warehouse blown up, fire crackling merrily, shots fired reported by half a dozen witnesses, and there’s her, toting some fairly serious hardware.”

“But… you do understand what I do? I realise not many people actually…” Slowly: “I’m a _data analyst_.”

Gaskell blinks. “It’s late. I’ve no-one else. You’re here now.”

“Um. Well, I often am, see, because…”

“And you’ve got the qualifications.”

“Sorry, sir – I still don’t understand.”

“See her, here? She won’t speak a word of English. Don’t know about _can’t_ , but _won’t_.”

Jones stares at the suspect, who looks rather more relaxed than he would in those circumstances, sprawled in a chair engineered to be uncomfortable. Her physique, or maybe her demeanour, or maybe just her jacket, combines impressions of wiry and bulky together.

He breaks off his scrutiny to look back at Gaskell, who’s staring at him with thinly disguised impatience. “So…?”

“So I need you to talk to her.”

He sighs. “Does she speak SQL?”

“Eh?”

“Coz that’s the language I’m most proficient in, after English.”

“I thought you lot all learned it in school and that.”

“Not really. I mean, I started picking it up when I was eleven, but that was out of a book… Look, sir, I think you may have…”

Gaskell grabs him, points as someone enters the interview room with a cup of tea, tries to make conversation. He cranks up the volume so Jones can hear the suspect repeat, faint smile on her face, a single, sing-song phrase, over and over, gaze on the further wall: “Dim Saesneg. Cyfieithydd os gwelwch yn dda.” They watch Banks, an even-tempered person who would be hard put to it to lose their temper at gunpoint, rapidly flush darker and stand, hands clenching, then lean forward onto the table, into the woman’s space, gritting: “We know you can speak English. Just speak bloody English, will you?”

And then the woman’s eyes swing and seem to catch Banks, whose colour drains, fading oak to beech, he thinks, clamps his mouth shut on it. Their legs look to be wobbling. Jones nearly doesn’t spot it, but sees the suspect’s nostrils flare swiftly as though catching a scent, and she inhales deeply as though pulling it inside herself with a momentary expression of deep glee. The next second she’s looking just as diffident as when he first saw her, and he breathes a sigh of relief, which lasts right up until she swings her gaze again and seems to be looking at him directly. Grey, he thinks, staring right back, unable to break away. Her eyes are grey. Light grey, with a grain like ash wood. Ash. A pattern. Light. Light grey eyes.

“Yeah,” says Gaskell wearily. “She keeps doing that as well.” He walks between Jones and the glass.

Jones squeezes his eyes closed, shakes his head.

“You and you!” barks Gaskell. “Go fetch Banks out of there.” Banks is backed into the wall of the interview room, shaking their head, rubbing the back of it against the wall. The woman is staring at the ceiling now.

“And you want me to go in there.” Jones feels his hands tingle, cold. Never a good sign.

“Yes. And preferably now.”

“And if I told you I don’t want to?” Gaskell shoots him a single look. “Right, right.”

Wheatley curses on the threshold as Banks stumbles and leans heavily on her. Po apologises and tugs his half of the weight onto his shoulders. “Canteen. Now,” snaps Gaskell. “Hot, sweet tea.”

“Yes, sir.”

*

Jones keeps his eyes low as he enters, gestured ahead by Gaskell.

She perks up as Jones introduces himself, rattles off a welter of Welsh with something approaching a smile. When he continues to look blank she rolls her eyes, takes a deep breath on a quirk of eyebrow and says, slowly: “Dim Saesneg. Cyfieithydd os gwelwch yn dda,” as though speaking to an easily distracted child.

“Well?”

“Well, sir, Saesneg is English.”

“Right.”

“And ‘os gwelwch yn dda’ is ‘please’.” He shrugs. “I think.”

“I feel infinitely more informed already.” He thinks he can be forgiven this bit of sarcasm at nigh-on two in the bloody morning. Jones’s look is reproachful, but he waves him on. “Go on. Can you ask her who she is?”

“Er, er. P-pwy, um, pwy wyt ti?”

She glares at him, contemptuous. “Pwy _ydych chi_ ,” she sneers.

“What was that?”

“Not formal enough for her, apparently,” he mutters. “Pwy _ydych chi_ , then?”

She smiles – another unpleasant one. “Dwi’n lladdio anghenfion. Na. Anghenfilod.”

“What?”

“I have no idea, sir.” And he doesn’t want to know, he can see that. He doesn’t blame him.

She grins at him, suddenly, swings her gaze towards the mirror, broadens to something like a faceful of broken glass, winks, and runs her thumb across her throat.

She turns back to them, rolls her fingers forward, looking suddenly, reasonably, like someone trying to remember a word, rolling her eyes up and to the left on a rapid blink. She smiles in recollection, and it’s almost pleasant, almost… normal. “Helfarch,” she says, nods, pleased with herself.

To Gaskell it sounds a lot like “Hell Varkh”. Suits her. “That your name, then? Hmm?” Loud, like he’s talking to a drunk, elderly person. “Helen Vark?”

She is clearly repressing a great howl of laughter behind her ostentatiously twitching face and meanly sparkling eyes.

Fine.

“Er, I don’t think that’s her name, sir.”

“You don’t say.” He casts his mind back. “Maybe it was that earlier thing. Anghen something. Anghil.”

“Don’t think so, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I think that means angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anghil doesn’t meant angel, but it sounds close enough…
> 
> Anghenfion means the needy.
> 
> Anghenfilod means either bugs or monsters.
> 
> Lladdio means to kill.
> 
> Helfarch means hunter.
> 
> For interest:
> 
>  **welter**  
>  ˈwɛltə/
> 
> _verb literary_
> 
>   1. move in a turbulent fashion. “the streams foam and welter”
>   2. lie soaked in blood.
> 

> 
> _noun_
> 
>   1. a large number of items in no order; a confused mass.
> 



	3. Number of the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longer tracts of Welsh will have hover-over translations, plus a translation in the end notes.

“No English,” she suddenly says, in a thick but comprehensible accent. “Interpreter.”

“We told you before,” he says, slowly and loudly. “No interpreter for Welsh. Not at this time of the… morning.” A thought strikes him. He gestures with each word. “You.” Point. “Have.” Hand clasped shut. “Interpreter?” A pause and then pointing back and forth between them.

“Sir,” murmurs Jones, “she’s Welsh. Not deaf.”

Gaskell shakes his head at him, focusing on the woman. She’s still lounging, wire-tight and utterly at ease, kicked back in her hard chair. She lets out a bark of laugh that puts him in mind, abruptly, of a fox, eyes lighting sardonic on his for the first time fully since this bullshit began.

Whether it’s the combination of words or his pantomime, she’s willing to at least play along. Or maybe she’s finally bored.

She sits up, beckons for paper and pen; hunches over them, fiddling with the pen, and then laboriously writes a name and a longer organisational title on the card they give her. At least, he _hopes_ it’s some kind of organisation.

“Where is this?” She cocks an inquiring look his way. It’s bright with false helpfulness and innocence, sparkling with malice.

“WHERE…”

“Ble.”

He turns to Jones. “What’s that?”

“Sorry. Just remembered – that’s one I do know: ble. Where.”

“Llundain.”

“What? Er…”

He looks at Jones, who says: “Beth.” He feels his body jerk in reaction. “What, sir.”

“That’s… my sister’s name.” He lets out a weak chuckle. “Weird…” He turns to the woman. “Beth?” Feels the word curl in his mouth.

She smirks at him, says “Llundain” again, loudly and slowly, a supercilious gap between each syllable like _he_ ’s the stupid one. He. He fists down the rage that is threatening to churn acid into his mouth; she won’t get him!

He swallows, unclenches his jaw, turns to Jones. “Well?”

Jones shrugs. Then blinks. “Oh. London.”

“The Magnus Institute. London?” He turns to her. “London? It’s here?” He stabs a finger down into the desk.

She shrugs. “Yma. Ydy.”

“This man.” He turns the card, prods the name, pushing it at her. “This man is an interpreter?”

She sniggers. “Cyfieithydd. Siaradwr. Ydy. Mae e’n gofyn cwestiynau…” Her expression tightens suddenly, briefly, and then the now-familiar sneer is back, but he can’t shake the impression of having seen her in pain, the ghost of disquiet on her, bordering on fear, and he finds himself glad to have seen it.

It’s a mean gladness, but it’s something, and he’ll take anything, however thin, at this stage.

“Right,” he says to Jones. “Let’s go.”

“Me too, sir?” The man’s voice rings with relief.

“You too, mate.” Mate? And not a friendly version either. The man looks taken aback and no wonder. He scrubs down over his face with the palm of his hand and hopes that gesture of exhaustion will salve something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Cyfieithydd. Siaradwr. Ydy. Mae e’n gofyn cwestiynau…_ = Interpreter. Talker. Yes. He asks questions…


	4. Enter The Archivist

The man who turns up, introducing himself with precision, is not the man he spoke to on the phone; though he sounds as educated, as well-spoken, he is hoarser, wearier, less… smug…

It also strikes him, after a second glance, that this man is younger than his grey-strung hair and somewhat haggard demeanour initially imply. He is hunched into a stumbling kind of tired, not so surprising at this hour, and has the distinct smell of someone who’s not slept or eaten well for a while. And of a hastily consumed fag no doubt lit straight from the cab and stubbed out just before entering the station.

He looks as though the light hurts him, but when Gaskell catches his gaze, he finds it steady, impressive even; finds himself immediately of the impression that this man is beyond the normal level of intelligence and on a completely different, darker track of… He shakes his head rapidly, surreptitiously as he stretches his shoulders and reaches to shake the man’s hand. The texture… He schools his face as he looks into the other’s, is sure he betrays nothing of his disquiet.

He gestures towards where the man is holding… Dear God. Both of them. Both his hands are deeply scarred, his arms _pitted_. “Can we. Can we help you with any of…?”

“It’s not heavy. Thank you.” There’s a snap to his speech, and he’s used to command, this one. Interesting.

The less raw hand is clasped around an old-fashioned cardboard file folder and “Is that a tape recorder?!”

“Oh, er, yes. I want, er, want to keep a record of this conversation, for the sake of my, er, my associate. They, er. Who… They didn’t say: who is it?”

“We don’t have her name. I told your boss. Didn’t he explain that to you?”

The man sighs, short and heavy. “I was just told that there was ‘an aggressive woman’ asking for me who ‘wouldn’t speak English’.”

“And?”

“And,” he sighs again, lightly, “you’d have to narrow that down a great deal before I could make an identification without seeing her.”

“Right.”

“Quite. May I? See her?”

“Of course. If you could just sign in here.”

He picks up his visitor badge with a clipped kind of smile, attaches it to his jacket. And Gaskell sees, for a moment, as he twists his head, that it’s not just his hands that bear scars, but his throat and neck as well.

What kind of place, what kind of job…?

Copper mask firmly in place, he says: “This way.” They make their way through the coded door towards the secure interview rooms. After a while he finds himself asking: “But a _tape_ recorder?”

“I find they’re very… robust.” His tone is somewhere between defensive and… resentful? He shakes his head. He has no spare energy to untangle this. Belatedly, he says:

“Thanks for coming out so promptly, and at this time.”

The man sighs. He peers back at him. He doesn’t look put out, just pushes his hand through that prematurely aged hair, says: “Late isn’t too much of a problem for me.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to putting a name to her, in any case.”

“Do you not have her on record, then?”

“Apparently not.”

“ **Why weren’t you able to identify her?** ”

And his description of their ongoing technology problems tonight rolls fluently out of him the rest of the way to the observation room. First the fingerprint database persistently glitching, then the camera when they tried to take a picture of her, and finally what happened when they attempted a manual search of the facial recognition database. Some problem at server level, apparently, a harried technician had told Jones over the phone.

“But that doesn’t explain why no mobile phones will work in here tonight. If I was superstitious I’d be pointing at the calendar…”

“Er, why?”

“The date?”

He turns back over his shoulder. The man looks an arrogant kind of baffled. He nods encouragingly at him, which summons a venture of: “The… thirteenth…?”

“Yeah – Friday the thirteenth. Spooky, eh?”

“Right. I don’t. Er. Friday?”

“Yeah…”

“Right…”

What kind of person doesn’t know the day of the week? he thinks, forgetting that it’s a Thursday. When he remembers, later, he will find himself irrationally angry that Sims never pointed it out. By then, however, he’ll have plenty of rage to spare.

He presses in the code to open the next door, gestures him through. “Just in here.”


	5. Dym a Dyma

Well, it could be worse, thinks Jon, peering through the glass. It could have been Jude Perry. Or Not!Sasha. Somehow. On the other hand, it could have been Basira or Melanie, so… She turns and stares directly at him, grins like a wolverine. “Is… uh, isn’t that one-way glass…?”

The officer sighs. “Yep. Soundproofed too. Some people can just do that, it would appear.”

“Some people?”

“So I’m told – I’ve only seen… one… do it.” Then he shakes his head as if to clear it. “Just, er, just one.”

Jon points. “Just her?”

“Er. Just. Yes, just her. No-one… before.”

“Right.” A pause. “So, can I go in? Talk with my associate?”

“Yes.” He blinks rapidly, appears to return to the room. “We’ll let you have a moment. Then we need you to translate for us.”

“Trans–? Oh.” She’s shaking her head at him, ever so slightly, and, combined with her narrowed eyes and frame of shoulders, it’s a cadence he’s familiar with: _I’ll break every bone in your body_. “Right. Translate. L-lead the way, officer.” Gaskell eyes him as though his attempt at joviality is about as leaden and unwelcome as he feels.

“Right you are, sir,” he says, heavily, coding open the door and ushering him in.

872 thinks Jon, like a fragment of a tune that’s popped into his head. He taps the rhythm of it on his arm: 872. 8726. 87265.

Okay…

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Sims.”

He nods. “Daisy.”

“I’ll leave you to talk for a few minutes,” says the officer. “Five max.”

She hoists her other eyebrow at him, staring him all the way out of the room, a small sneer on her lips. Jon is struck, all over again, how she manages to combine a menace of spring-loaded tension with the air of something lounging at leisure. It’s an aspect of her… patron… he guesses.

 _But you don’t guess, do you_ , says something in a voice all too like Elias’s, _you_ know…

Eyes hooded, he ignores it, gazes at the former officer.

“Are you well, det– Daisy?”

«Oh, I’m in my element, Sims. Having a great time, isn’t it?»

“I know I’m going to regret this question or, more precisely, its answer, but why are you doing this?”

She stares at him, expressionless. For a moment he wonders if he’s accidentally attempted to compel her, but no. He relaxes a notch. After a long moment of mutual blankness, she nods sideways at the mirror. Then, in tones of very precise boredom, she says: «Because I got caught.»

“Right?”

She sighs. «Don’t be thick, Sims. This was my best defence at short notice. Some of us can magic our way out of… stuff. The rest of us have to make do with what we’ve got.»

“I see.”

In the observation area, Gaskell stares in something approaching bewilderment at the scene.

“Awfully chatty now, sir, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Jones. That’s true. My only real question is: why is he still speaking English?”

Jones shrugs. He can’t lipread all that well, and it’s definitely past his bedtime now.

Inside, she says, leaning back and stretching her legs out under the table, in tones of perfect truculence: «If you don’t catch up soon, my cover will be blown and your spooky boss will kick your» “freaky” «arse, and then we’re all in trouble.»

“Why… what…?”

«Think, Sims. Why aren’t they beating the door down yet?»

“You. Your.” He wants to say: your cover’s still intact, but then how can it be when she…? When…

“Oh, for f–”

«There he is – that winning brain! So let’s see how much further you can go…»

I can’t continue to speak with her like this. I have. I. “Damn it!”

There is no way out of this, is there? He answered the summons and now he’s in the middle of a Catch 22 situation. Unless this is one of those things that everyone _says_ is a Catch 22 situation and what they _actually_ mean is…

He shakes his head, irritated with himself. She just cocks an eyebrow. Fat lot of help there.

Or maybe it’s just irony.

Everywhere he looks the whole thing is impossible. Blank walls at every turn. Dark corridors leading to. It’s.

Oh, Hell. There’s only one real answer, isn’t there? Unless he wants his… colleague… to be incarcerated. He’s pretty sure he knows what Elias would say in response to that eventuality. He’s less idea what he would _do_ in response to that, but is certain he doesn’t want to find out.

Well then.

He takes a breath, reaches further into and out of himself, finds the wall that’s not a wall, a membrane, tissue-thin, and pushes, all the while wondering why he’s even considering making this step, treading down this next level for the sake of a woman he’d be quite pleased, in some ways, to see bundled into a cell and brutalised in her turn. She’s left her mark on him, after all…

And, as he fingers the still-livid scar on his throat, he turns his eyes to hers so she’ll see the moment he breaks through and _know_.

“ _Hnnnn!_ ” Oh, God, it _does_ hurt, and worse than he’d thought, ripping the breath from his lungs, and worse even than that is the echo of empty space beyond and around him, begging – _demanding_ to be filled. He feels the rush of _knowing_ flooding into him, dimly perceives her grimacing as some of it’s tugged from her, a quick writhe and stamp as if she can’t help herself and, as his vision clears, he sees that that’s hurt her badly too.

Being out of control. Yes, he knows that one.

He takes a deep breath, opens his mouth, glares at her as imperiously as he can manage while his heart careens in his ribcage and says: «You and I are going to have words about this later.»

A silent gape, and he has a second of enjoying having surprised her and then her face folds into hard-eyed recovery. The last time he saw a grin like that on anything, it was behind glass at the Natural History Museum.

She shakes her head. «That’s a terrible accent, Sims.»

«What?»

She huffs a chuckle. «You are properly odd. You know that, don’t you?» Her tone borders on gleeful.

«What’s your point?»

She laughs again. «Fair play.»


	6. Notorious

A gasp, and they turn to see the latest person to walk into the observation area. She’s got her brow screwed up as she stares and stares at the pair in the interview room.

“Fuck me!”

“Tiz?”

“ _Don’t you know who that is?!_ ”

“Lumley?”

She shakes her head. “Fucking hell, sir. Sorry. That’s _Tonner_. Detective Tonner as was.”

“Wait. _Alice_ Tonner?”

She shakes her head again. “‘Daisy’. She prefers _Daisy_.”

“I’ve heard of her, of course. Just. I didn’t.”

“Didn’t she leave?”

She turns to Jones. “Yeah. Her and Basira Hussain. Well, Basira first, and I never thought she’d.” She pauses, paling. “Shit. Sir…”

“What is it?”

Low and urgent: “Who did she hurt?”

He frowns. “She’s… how could she…?”

“Tiz?” Jones is staring at her. “You okay?”

“Tonner is very, _very_ bad news. You have to get her out of here.”

“Lumley, we’re currently processing…”

“You don’t get it, sir. Whatever you do, she’ll. She. I’m telling you: get her out of here.”

He stares. Tizemt Lumley joined them from West Midlands just over two years ago. She is focused, fearless, well on her way to joining SCO19 as a specialist firearms officer. She was in the second ARV tonight – riding with them on a placement this month. His mouth twists. Rumour has it that Tonner – if that’s who’s currently sitting in his interview room – is at least as talented with firearms as Lumley, with all the benefit of a good decade or so more experience. Some very _strange_ experience.

Fuck. He does not have the time for this.

Jones is saying something, but his voice is faint, somehow. “What was that?”

Jones clears his throat, tries again. “Isn’t she Section 31? Wasn’t. Sorry.”

Gaskell squares his shoulders. “Section 31 is just an urban myth,” he intones, blank-faced.

Lumley and Jones look at him with twinned “Come on, sir” expressions. But behind their ingrained copper cynicism he is dead-pale, his freckles showing up sharply, and her normally bronze-bright skin is looking greyish.

And something is itching at his brain. Something about an interview room and a mirror; something about words unspoken; something about a special phone call.

“Who’s…” he manages. “Who’s the guy in with her?”

“Sir?”

“Do you know him? Either of you? Know _of_ him? Jonathan Sims, they called him. Jon. Do you. Is he… anyone?”

They’re both staring at him like he’s started speaking Welsh himself.


	7. Promising

As the senior officer – Gaskell, he remembers (John; forty-seven; left-handed; born in Maidstone; divorced) – enters the room, she says, conversationally contemptuous: «This son of a whore. I saved his life and this is my return?» 

«You… what…? When?»

«He won’t remember,» she says, casually angry, irritably resigned. «It’s rare.»

«‹Son of a whore›?!» He projects mild amusement at her.

«You try swearing in this language.»

He chuckles, and Gaskell swings a look at him. “Are you going to introduce us?”

“Ah, er, I’m sorry, officer. This is Alice Tonner.” She glares. “Though she prefers–”

“‘Daisy’. Yes, we’re aware of Ms. Tonner. And her preferences.”

“Ah. I see.” He finds he doesn’t quite dare look at her. Closing his eyes for a long blink he takes a deep breath. “Could you bring the other officers in here? Those who’ve been involved in Ms. Tonner’s…” he gropes for the word, “processing? **They’ll need to witness this.** ”

Gaskell’s nostrils flare once and his lips disappear for a moment. “Very well. Stay put.”

“Of course.”

«That was useful. You should probably let me know what’s going on?»

«Of course, my apologies.» He waves an arm, points, hopes it’s not too theatrical. «And so on. Er. I hope you’re ready for whatever happens next.» From the look on her face, the only thing he can be sure of is that he’s likely the least prepared of everyone in this building. And that his gesturing was _definitely_ too theatrical.

The silence goes on for a long fidget.

As the officers start to file in, he can see her weighing each one, filing the knowledge away. He wonders, briefly, but not for the first time, how it must be to think with your body, to know with your fists and feet, feel weapons as an extension of self.

Gaskell has each of them say their names, and he meets various ranks of Banks, Wheatley, Po, Jones, Radcliffe, Suzuki, and Lumley, the latter of which is a far sourer mash of rage and fear than the others, broadcasting hate on an almost sonic level.

Daisy stares at her, a small smile playing on her lips, then blinks slowly, turns her head. The officer hisses an in-breath, very faintly.

“Mr. Sims?” Gaskell is no less unhappy than earlier.

“Ah?” He hides in a mild pomposity. “Ahem, yes. Well, Ms. Tonner is willing to… make a statement.”

She glares at him. He recalls himself enough to repeat it in Welsh. The glare, if anything, intensifies.

«Don’t forget –» he tells her «all I have to do is _ask_ and you’re toast. **_Do you understand?_** »

Her face is, briefly, a mask of all the things The Hunt could do to him if it chose. A blazing howl of cold sears around him and he is small, defenceless, lost, exposed, and then an all-too-human glower blooms sullenly over her features and she’s Alice “Daisy” Tonner again and all she can do is… well… pummel him into a thousand separate agonies, each bone broken, for sure, but that’s a quotidian fate. Bones heal. Scars fade.

Apparently.

She stretches her jaw, rubbing her tongue on the roof of her mouth as though it itches, scratches the junction of chin and throat, all the while eyeing him sourly. «Yes. Get on with it,» she growls. Behind him, one of the officers covers what sounds awfully like a whimper with a throat clearing.

«You’ll have to make it real,» he warns her. «Fairly sure I’m not good enough to just fake whatever you say into a good story in English, and they’ll be recording it, might check with a real interpreter later.» He lifts the machine gently onto the desk. «And so will I.»

She sneers: «Get your fix, will you?» The tape, of course, is already rolling. Who knows for how long this time?

He just blinks at her, and rather thinks he’s failed to cover whatever is revealed to her when triumph lights her eyes.

“Have you started your recording, officer?”

“Starting now.”

She looks down at the table between her spread palms and starts to speak.

He takes a juddering sigh, tries to smother it with a yawn, gazes blankly back at the officers until it dawns on him what they’re waiting for. What everyone is waiting for:

“Oh, sorry, yes. Statement of Daisy Tonner, formerly of the Metropolitan Police, now working for The Magnus Institute, London, regarding the destruction of some living mannequins at Warehouse 5, Erebus Walk. Statement taken live from subject, 13th July 2017; translation by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute. Statement begins: ‘I don’t know if you’ll all have to sign a Section 31 after I’m done here. Doesn’t matter. Anyway, most of the evidence is gone. Can’t be helped. Sorry about that.’...”


	8. Habeas Corpus

“Thank you for acceding to my request.”

His teeth grit over the phrasing – a quick inferiority flinch straight from adolescence. “That’s okay, Mr. Sims.” He waves him towards the other seat; they both sit. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

The man pauses. Gaskell studies him for a moment. He still looks tired, but there’s a subtle energy to him now, and his overt stillness is something like a badly masked restlessness.

“Forgive me, officer. I’m no lawyer…”

“Good to know.”

“Hah, but I have to tell you – I don’t think you can charge Ms. Tonner with anything, in light of the circumstances.”

He rests his expression behind a curl of fingers. “Hmm.”

“You can’t prove the gun was hers.”

His hand returns to the desk. “You can’t prove it wasn’t.”

“Do you have it?”

“Have what?”

“The gun.”

“I am not at liberty to…”

“ **Do you have the gun?** ”

“No, we don’t – they couldn’t find it.”

“ **Did anyone see her fire the gun?** ”

“No.”

“ **Do you believe her story?** ”

“Yes. I’ve no other choice.”

“ **Why?** ”

“Because… Because VanderMeer called. About the… _parts_ they took into evidence. VanderMeer has no imagination, so nothing makes sense of what she said except for Tonner’s story.”

He hesitates, caught between two truths to pursue. _Focus_ , says that voice like Elias’s. “ **What about the witnesses**?”

The officer laughs on a punch of sound. “You tell me. We can’t get hold of a one of them.”

“I see…” He takes a breath. “ **Are you going to let us go**?”

He slumps. “You I can’t hold. Being arrogant and over-articulate isn’t a good enough reason. Her? I don’t know. I’ve got nothing solid right now. But I still have a little time to–”

“Ah. Sorry – do you want to get that?”

“Get what?”

The desk phone rings. The officer stares at him for a long moment, picking it up. “Gaskell?”

His eyes widen. “Yes, sir. Hello, sir. Yes, we do, sir.” A pause. His gaze slides away. “With respect, sir, this is a serious– Mmh. Yes.” He looks to be biting his lips together. He licks them. “Obviously. But, can I just ask… Right. Right.” His gaze comes back to Jon’s, harder now, his whole face shut down. “Understood, sir. No, we. We were having trouble processing her anyway, so. Right, but. Right.” Now he’s chewing his cheek. Slowly. He swallows and says: “Understood, sir,” again.

He’s standing before he’s even put the phone back in its cradle.

“That was Superintendent Satyamurthy.” He speaks stiffly; a man locked with unaccustomed ire. “Do you know him?”

Jon shakes his head, looking honestly baffled. “No. Shoul–?”

“ _And he_ ,” says Gaskell, louder, “is calling me because of something _his _boss said to him. And the short version is: we all have to sign a Section fucking 31, and _you_ are leaving this building. Now.” Jon stands, opens his mouth, “And as soon as possible afterwards, yes,” he raises a hand to cut Jon off, “ _Ms._ Tonner follows. And if I ever meet _any_ of you wastes of skin,” Jon flinches, “again – and I include your pompous fucking boss in that statement – it will go very, _very_ hard with you. Do we have an understanding?__

____

Jon nods. It seems safer.

____

“Good. Now fuck off.”

____


	9. Departure

It’s still dark outside, but the permanent twilight of high summer, the stars just starting to fade. He tilts his head back and lets a plume jet upwards into the harsh light of the building, feeling… something…

«Filthy habit,» she chuckles from just behind his shoulder.

He sputters and his hand stutters the cigarette into an arc that dies in a puddle of something that can’t be rainwater.

“Bugger.”

«Sorry,» she says, entirely unrepentantly. «Want a hand with anything?»

“No,” he says. “Thank you. Did, er, did you get your possessions back alright?”

«Some of them.» She pats her jacket.

He imagines the blades, then sees them, which ones hold memories, the grips worn to her hand. He wonders whether she’d like him to _ask_ for the rest.

«You coming, then?»

He frowns. “I suppose so.”

«You want to hang around here?»

He heaves a breath, peels himself off the station wall. “No.”

«Good choice. Come with me.»

“Okay. Do you have a cab waiting? I couldn’t…” he taps his spasming, reluctant phone irritably, “get one.”

«Better than that. Come on.»

*

“‘Better’ turns out to be a dark, wooded path…”

“Yep.”

“Didn’t know ‘yep’ was a Welsh word…”

“Can it, Sims. Enjoy the quiet.” But there’s no bite or snarl to it. He decides that she might well just want him to enjoy the quiet.

“This feels…” he says after a while, “nice.”

She snorts. He knows it’s not the right word. His city tongue feels constrained by vagueness in places like this – everything is bosky background that can either be unpleasant (marshy, rocky, filled with the kind of kids who still summon up the victim in him) or pleasant (decent, well-lit path, well-spaced trees, no suspiciously organic smells). Not that his nose, calibrated to burnt and unburnt tobacco, and the different types of old paper that he might encounter, would be much use to him here for categorisation purposes.

She seems happy enough – snuffing up… whatever she’s getting from this, setting a brisk but manageable pace over the root-strewn but otherwise civilised ground.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were in a rush…”

“Just want to put some distance between us and them.”

A pause while he turns that over. “Are we… running from a police station?”

“Let’s call it ‘walking briskly,’ shall we? Don’t want to tax those smoker’s lungs.”

“I’m the product of a necessarily sedentary occupation,” he tells her, with a mock dignity.

She huffs a laugh. “That and fuck-all thought for personal fitness.”

She’s easier to deal with outdoors, he decides, when she’s diluted by, well, by open air, and a lack of people. Other people. And he realises that running alongside her in the cool, slightly damp night air could be an exhilarating experience; so much so that he almost grasps for it, until he remembers and, chilled, withdraws from that brief ambition.

This is not his path. He watches her, head back under a scudding sky, tossing her hair into the bright wind that speaks so much to her and… people like her.

People. Hah.

“What was that?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing, nothing…”

“Nice night.”

“Yes.” He is suspicious, pours caution into the syllable.

“What?”

“You’re making small talk.”

She smiles sidelong at him, shrugs more firmly into her jacket.

“You’re enjoying yourself.”

“As it goes,” she says, “yes.”

“You like being outdoors?” He is careful to make it as neutral as possible.

She looks at him sidelong again. “I guess so. Never really thought about it much. London’s a bit… I mean, it depends where you go.”

“Not exactly quiet.”

“Not exactly.” They stroll along, now at an easier pace, for a while. “Where you from? Someone said but I forgot. South coast, isn’t it?”

“Bournemouth.”

“Miss it?”

“Wh– I. Sometimes. Why?”

“Down by the sea, right?” He nods. “I miss the sea. I mean: I know there’s Docklands, and I could drive to Kent or whatever but… it’s not _my_ sea.”

He knows what she means. He nods again.

“Where I grew up – I mean, it was a city, okay, but small. Manageable.”

“Right.”

“And there was the sea. And woods. You could… get dark. Properly dark. Quiet.”

“Right.”

“The wind was… clean.”

“Right.”

She takes a deep breath, turns a wry, self-mocking smile on him. “Probably just nostalgia. I bet home reeks pretty bad in reality.”

“Hmm.”


	10. Necessity

She seems content to switch him off for a while, after that – for her – outpouring, ambling at what he recognises with a slight drop of heart as a long-distance pace, humming gently to herself. She seems to be making no real effort to get back to the road.

 _To civilisation_ , he realises he means, and curses silently. Trevor and Julia come to mind, as they do so easily now. Trevor still thinks of anything with an actual bed as luxury, and Julia can and will sleep anywhere, at any time. They don’t eat for much more than basic nutrition, and they rarely wash, certainly never use artificial scent, both of them of the Cut It Short/ Run Your Fingers Through It school of grooming.

And if they can’t eat it or use it as bait, they don’t think about anything that’s not trying to kill them. He envies them, briefly, but surprisingly frequently. He will always be thinking, a busy creature of mentation, wonders if he’ll descend into a spiral of thinking about thinking at some point, disappear in twists upon twists of self-referential solipsism.

Thank God for the end of the world, eh? Forcing him to bend his thoughts outwards, use them as tools…

Use others – and he thinks here, most especially, of Tim, of Martin – as tools.

He closes his eyes in a long, self-recriminatory blink as he compares himself to Gertrude, to Elias, then promptly trips over a root, avoiding falling on his face by the merest whisker.

She doesn’t look around at his thump and hiss, but he could swear her shoulders twitch, just once. He has become something she ignores – less important than night-scuttling undergrowth.

He thinks that hunters must get good at that kind of filtering, as well as scoping out the ground ahead of them, for their own smooth-running purposes, for the stumbling of prey.

He thinks of them, then – not her, not that brutal pair – hunters embodied in cultures across the globe and as old as humanity itself, the dawn of the fear where we were the ones feared, he thinks. And before that: wolves, raptors, cheetahs, sharks – chasing, planning, cornering, snatching. Collaborating and going it alone. Fleet and silent and never, ever worrying about what the prey is _feeling_ , whether anyone will miss it, beyond what that means for their own incapacitation.

He sees them pouring across moonlit plains, bounding solo after noonday gazelle, hiding in twilight trees to pounce.

It must be simple.

Hunters run.

Hunters jump. 

Hunters… set… Shit. _Shit!_

“Hunters set traps.”

“Hmm? Yes,” she says, absently.

“Where are we?”

“On the way home.”

“My home or yours?”

She sighs. Says plainly, without menace: “I’ll get you home, Sims; don’t worry.”

Oh. “I don’t need an escort,” he huffs.

“Yes,” she says, still quiet and serious, “you do.”

“Damn.” He recollects the cold caress of lotion, the hard hands and harder eyes of that laughing pair. “Yes, I do.”

“Why you in a mood with me, Sims?”

He sighs. Weighs his words. “Because that… back there in the station, that, that wasn’t a proper statement.”

“What?” She is mock-incredulous. “But it had an official-sounding intro and _everything_.”

“You lied.”

“Only in a few key, strategic places.”

And each one had twisted in his gut like bad meat. He needs to make her see that. Turning, he sees that she may well do, slanting a look his way that is almost sympathetic.

“Sometimes,” she says, almost conversationally, turning her face forward again, “I have to run. Hard. Helps if it’s at night, no-one around. I go down to the river, or drive to one of the big parks. If… _he_ ’s not given me a… case. It’s like my blood’s running too hot, see? I have to cool it down.”

She has still has trouble, sometimes, saying his name. “Does it help?”

“Sort of.”

“Right.”

“Give you the full statement then, shall I?”

His heart gives one sickening thump, reverberating all the way up to his throat, down to his guts. “Yes?”

She clears her throat, gives her statement again, in English this time. The park opens up around their steady pace, sky hinting light more strongly now, then closes again. The gun is hers; the creatures a little more pathetic, more easily dealt with; the fire started deliberately by her; the decision to speak in Welsh also deliberate as opposed to cartoonish after-effects of a blow to the head.

He coughs gently. “Do you think they bought that?”

“What, the: ‘I don’t understand why I can’t speak English anymore, must have been the explosion that did it’ bit? I thought I was pretty convincing.”

“You do have a talent for befuddled truculence.”

She looks at him sharply. “And if I knew what that meant would I be pleased?”

“Yes?”

“Right.”

They stroll on in silence for a while.


	11. Coda

“That’s not it.”

“Not what?” She doesn’t sound particularly interested, and for a moment he imagines her scoping out which of the trees to scale, which branch to lounge in before dropping on someone’s head.

He grits his teeth, feels his fists clenching. “That’s not the whole story.”

“Is it not?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“How do _you_ know when someone’s a monster?”

“Point taken.”

“Besides: the tape’s still running.”

He sees her head cock, her shoulders slump at the whirr.

“You’ve got problems, Sims.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Hah. I just…”

“ **Tell me about it**.”

An instant later, he’s rammed against the nearest trunk, papers fluttering to the ground from his nerveless hand.

“I thought I told you not to do that, freak!” Her breath is hot in his shrinking face, teeth bared, inches from his flesh.

“ **How are you able to resist**?” It’s like a reflex and he longs to pull it back but, oh, he _really_ needs to know.

A thin, drawn-out sound emanates from her throat, something between a whimper and a snarl, and she flings herself away from him the next second, back turned, tucking over into her gut, arms over her head.

“Are you alr–”

One arm flings back towards him, finger outstretched. “Shut the fuck up!”

“Right, right. Sorry,” he murmurs.

After a few deep, ragged breaths, she straightens, turns back to him, and he squeaks before he can help himself, pressing back into the tree as she advances. “You and your endless, _fucking_ need to know. If it wasn’t for–” Another couple of hard breaths. “Right. You want this? Fine. You were worried about a trap. From me.”

“Y-yes.”

“You were right to, as it goes. But your timing’s wrong. Trap’s already sprung.”

“W-what?” He flings his gaze around reflexively, even though he knows there’s no getting away from her.

“Idiot,” she hisses. “If I was going to kill you, you’d be dead already.”

“What if…” he swallows, tries again. “What if this is part of the hunting – running me to ground, making me scared…?”

She looks genuinely puzzled. “What the fuck you talking about, Sims?”

“Er.” Oh, dear God. “N-nothing.” Is it possible she doesn’t–? “Sorry. Go on.” It’s not like she’s read any of the statements, is it?

“Why was I in the station, Sims?”

“You. You got caught.”

“Why did I get caught?”

“Because you w– the explo–.” He tries to imagine her stunned enough to be caught, finds it next to impossible, especially coupled with how she got rid of the gun so efficiently in plain sight.

“You weren’t concussed.”

“Do I sound concussed?”

“And…” he sees it clearly – the hard throw of the firearm, the other hand that scoops it up. “You had help.”

“ _Good_ boy,” she’s nearly bouncing, and he feels absurdly pleased for a moment. “Go on…”

“You _wanted_ to be caught. Taken to _that_ station, and then set free.”

“Thanks for that, by the way.” And the hard grin is back.

“I’m guessing that the technical issues…”

She holds her hands up. “Nothing to do with me.”

“No, but it’s an awfully big coincidence, don’t you think?”

She shrugs, attention sliding. He realises belatedly that her focus is often divided between what’s in front of her and their surroundings – head flicking, eyes distant.

“And me?”

“Hmm?”

“Why was _I_ there?”

“Oh,” she says carelessly, “he said it needed to be you.”

“So you had them send for me.” He can’t keep the sourness from his throat.

Another shrug. “If he’d said Stoker, it would have been him. Or Blackwood. Or… the other one.”

“Not Basira.”

The look she gives him is dark. “No.”

“No, I guess not,” he says, slowly.

“Hmm.”

“I still don’t… Oh.”

She cocks an eyebrow.

“There’s only one reason he sends you anywhere. Two, in fact.” Bodyguard or assassin.

She’s gone still again. Focused.

Shit.

“Were they even…”

“What?”

“Living mannequins? In that warehouse?”

“Oh yeah,” she says. “Definitely. That and taxidermy freaks. Two for one, you might say.”

“Bit of a coincidence.”

“Not really.” She steps away. “You coming?”

He sighs. “I suppose so. Hold on.” He scrabbles for the file and recorder, finds it’s still whirring.

Okay…

“Daisy?”

“Yes?” She’s staring up at the clouds dancing through the silver sky.

“Who was it?”

“Radcliffe. Shame.”

“Wh-why?” He steps up hesitantly beside her and she sets off again.

“I met the original. He was all right.”

“Oh. Right.” A pause. “I thought it might be her.”

“Who?”

“That female officer.”

“Narrow it down.”

“The one who hated you.”

“Narrow it down.”

He reaches. “Lumley. Tizemt Natasha Lumley. Born Birmingham, 1991. Right-handed. Currently seconded to –”

She’s laughing at him. “Yep, that’s narrowed, and no – she’s human enough. Decent shot. Heading for specialist.”

“SCO19.”

“Sigma Charlie Oscar,” she says, voice dreaming.

“I thought it was Sierra.”

“Fuck off, Sims.”

They trudge on for a bit. The thin whirr still echoes under his hand. He finds himself leaning both towards and away from the next thought. “And, er, _how_ …?”

He catches the edge of her grin. “Turns out there’s a lot you can do with a pen. Worth bearing in mind.” And she turns a waggish look his way, taps under her eye twice, and strides on.

“Jesus,” he mutters, then gets his legs under him and catches up with her.

“Come on Sims,” she says, grimly merry. “We might even get you back to your pit before sunrise…”


	12. Da Capo

“Jon,” he says, pleasant as ever. “Come in.”

“Elias.”

“Please, sit down.”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Well.” A silence. “I trust everything went to plan last night.”

He breathes in through his nose, measured, before saying: “You tell me.”

“A nest of creatures destroyed; our Hunter free; the police sanguine…”

He stares. He knows Elias knows – _must_ know – what he’s just said.

“Yes…” he says, slowly.

“Then why are you glaring at me like you want to–”

“Stick a pen in your eye…?”

“Really? How enterprising. I should give her a raise.”

“Fairly sure she’d do it for nothing,” he mutters.

“Well, maybe if I threw in the odd hot meal,” he replies, on a comfortable ooze of chuckle, “or a big, juicy bone and a comfortable basket by her mistress’s feet.” He gazes at Jon, who feels himself writhing, schoolboy and headmaster, feeling every insinuation twist inside him, hoping valiantly that none of it shows, remembering the next moment that that really won’t matter. “What is it, Jon?”

“Why me?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you send _me_ there? Surely any of the others…”

“None of them have your skills.”

“Basira could have…”

“No, Jon.”

“But.”

“Think.”

“You.” He knows. He’s just been avoiding saying it. “It was a test.”

“And you passed with flying colours. Congratulations.”

“Thank– _hnn_ – no. You. You don’t understand what that. _What it cost me_ ,” the last part in something like a stage whisper.

“I know precisely what it _gifted_ you,” and the avuncular tones have taken that shift that rimes them with ice. “You have expanded your skillset admirably. No-one could have done better.” And now the thaw that’s supposed to cozen and lure him.

“She didn’t need to kill him there.”

“No, indeed.”

“And the nest could have been gotten rid of more discreetly.”

“Hardly.”

“There could have been a fire with no explosion, surely. And it’s not a residential area, yet six witnesses phoned it in at that time of night. _Six?!_ ”

“Five.”

“I see.”

He does.

“Amazed you got your own hands dir– oh, you used Rosie…”

“Indeed.”

“She said it was a trap.”

“Rosie?” He’s playing with him now.

“Daisy.”

“She was right.”

“‘Two for one, you might say.’” His voice drops, unconsciously, into an imitation of her snarl.

“Indeed.”

“Did she know?”

“It’s difficult to say.”

“God- _damn_ it, Elias!”

“And now you can speak Welsh–”

“That’ll make me a great hit at all the parties…”

“And, I’m willing to bet: any other language you come across. Not just _understand_ , Jon, but _make yourself understood_. With how many more people will you now be able to converse?”

“Compel, you mean.”

Elias nods, serenely. “As you wish.” He gazes at him, blinking slowly. Takes a breath. “And now you know the mechanism of the conscious expansion of your skills.”

“It hurts,” he blurts, another near-whisper. “Oh God, Elias, _it hurts so much_.”

“The pain fades,” he says as he rises from behind his desk, “and the knowledge – the _power_ – remains.”

“The police have a recording of this. Elias, _aren’t you concerned?_ ”

He smirks. It’s a full-on, god-damned _smirk_. “They’re reliant on less… _robust_ technology than ours, Jon. I think you’ll find that their _digital_ recording will be quite useless.”

He frowns. “Really? But…”

“The Archives will not abide them, Jon, as you know, and you represent the Archives. You carry them with you now…”

“Oh, dear God.”

“Quite.” He advances.

Jon finds himself backing. Just a half-step, but there it is.

“I’m sure,” remarks Elias, pleasantly, “that you have other duties to take care of. I know that I do.” He tugs his waistcoat down into place. “So if that will be all?”

“Er, yes. Yes.”

“Good.” He brushes past him, holds open the door. “Good day, Jon.”

He makes sure to visibly wilt. Nods. Leaves. There’ll be a cup of tea and some fresh statements waiting for him when he gets back to his desk.

Just another day at work. For now.


End file.
